by R J Gould
‘Take that out, you know Dad only likes spaghetti.’
‘These are a nicer shape,’ said the girl as she gathered an armful of the packets of her choice and dropped them in the trolley.
‘How dare you!’ Once again the mother edged forward in an attempt to smack the child. This time Victoria stepped back and the woman stumbled as the trolley shot forward. She grabbed hold of a shelf for balance and six jars of Loyd Grossman Tomato and Chargrilled Vegetable pasta sauce smashed to the floor.
Now Margaret’s path was blocked by a trolley, a large woman determined to reach her small child, and a sticky pool of sauce mixed with broken glass. She turned to go back the way she came just as the five women in the aisle behind her were making the same decision.
‘Just you wait until I tell your father,’ she heard as she walked away.
‘Children, who wants them?’ she said to the woman in front of her who had until recently been behind her, before noticing with embarrassment one child holding her hand and twins sitting at the top of her trolley on blue plastic chairs.
As she walked on she reflected that often it was the parent who was the problem, not the child. Surely that had been the case in her life, her mother had been the problem. For an instant, Margaret felt very sad as she tried to fight a rising tide of gloomy memories. The relationship between parent and child needn’t always turn out bad, she reasoned. Look at Thomas’ two, Wayne and Lil. They seemed nice enough, well brought up. But when she returned to thinking about her own past the thought about what might have been made her thoroughly miserable.
Her sadness waned as she reflected on how life had improved since meeting Thomas. She had an explosive rush of fondness for him and by the time she reached checkout her basket was laden with all his favourites, including best quality mince and King Edward potatoes for tonight’s cottage pie. She bought fresh peas from Kenya, a ridiculous price but they were the vegetable he liked most.
It had stopped snowing and the wind had dropped by the time she got outside. A bus arrived just as she reached the stop. Funny how little things can make you happy, she thought as she boarded the bus, eager to get home for a quiet evening with Thomas.
Thomas Briggs
‘Who are these?’
Thomas lifted up the two photographs he was holding, grainy portraits of newly born babies.
‘Where did you get them from?’ Margaret asked as she continued to empty the bags and put the food away.
‘I was up in the attic looking for wrapping paper for Wayne’s present. Came across a box of photos with you as a kid and stuff. These were at the bottom of the pile. At first, I thought one was you and one was your sister, but they’re dated on the back. April 1970 and April 1971. And they can’t be your sister’s girls as that would have made her about ten when she had them. Anyway, there’s a three-year gap between her two.’
‘No, they aren’t Jackie’s.’
‘I’ve just said that.’
Margaret stopped her unpacking and walked out of the room. Thomas followed her into the lounge, still holding the two photos. ‘You all right?’ he asked.
She sank down into her favourite armchair, the sage green, brushed velvet one that was threadbare on the arms. Thomas had suggested replacing it several times, but Margaret wouldn’t have it. She avoided eye contact, focusing on the floral patterns in the carpet.
‘Aren’t you talking?’ he asked.
‘Thomas, I’m scared, scared you’ll hate me.’
‘Hate you? That ain’t likely, is it? I’m not sure what you’re on about. Is it the photos? I was just curious but you don’t have to say nothing if you don’t want to, I’ll just put them back where I found them.’ He turned and walked towards the door.
‘They’re mine,’ Margaret said softly. And with that she burst out crying, complete with loud sobs and uncontrollable shaking. ‘My God, my God,’ she gasped.
Thomas rested the photos on the Ercol table, knelt by her side, and took hold of her hands. ‘Whatever happened has happened. Tell me or don’t, it doesn’t matter. I’ll go and make us a nice cup of tea and when I’m done you can say as little or as much as you like.’
When he came back, carrying the tray with their best Royal Albert china and a plate of custard creams, Margaret was holding the photos and tears were still rolling down her cheeks.
‘I’ve been wanting to tell you, I just haven’t been brave enough. These are why I said no when you first asked me to marry you, even though nothing would have made me happier. I couldn’t, I didn’t deserve you. And I still don’t.’
‘Don’t be silly, Margaret. What’s done is done and I love you. Mind you, I would like to know exactly what happened.’
He poured the tea, brought her a cup with a biscuit balanced on the saucer, set it down, then kissed her on the forehead. He meant what he said about what’s done is done, but was curious about those two photographs of the babies given Margaret’s reaction. He had lots of questions. He’d looked through other photos, too, and had seen a barely recognisable Margaret in her teens. Caked in make-up, her hair a wild, tangled frizz, dresses and skirts that were so short you could see her knickers, nipples on show through her T-shirts. She made Lil look almost respectable. And then photos when she was just a little bit older, with clothes not much different to what she wore now – printed floral dresses severely buttoned up to the neck, austere cardigans. Hardly things a young woman would want to wear.
He would like to know what was what.
Margaret Briggs
‘You are not going out dressed like that, my girl!’ her mother had screamed, and all these years later she still shuddered as she felt the malice in those verbal assaults and her responding contempt for that shrill harsh voice.
‘Too bad, Mum, because you can’t stop me. I won’t be home tonight. I’m camping at the festival.’
‘Just you wait until I tell your father,’ her mother warned as Margaret slammed the front door shut.
Older friends at school had come back from the 1968 Isle of Wight festival raving about it and a gang of four close friends, Margaret included, had decided to go to the 1969 one at Woodside Bay, only a short bus ride from their home town of Shanklin. By the time Susan, Carol, Jackie, and Margaret set off there were vast crowds gathering on the island. It turned out that the 10,000 attending the 1968 event had swelled to over 150,000 the following year.
Margaret knew a bit about hippies and the summer of love and the drugs and the headlining bands, but nothing could have prepared her for the shock of the festival. On the way from the bus stop to the site they had seen young men and women of all shapes and sizes, and some not so young, strip off and run into the sea naked.
‘Let’s join them,’ Margaret urged.
‘No way,’ the others replied in unison.
‘Cowards.’
Before long they were in the grey sea, screaming with the shock of the cold, jumping up and down and cuddling each other, Margaret proud to expose breasts far larger than those of her fifteen-year-old friends.
“Burn Your Bras Here” read the sign next to the small fire on the beach as they walked on, still topless. They added theirs to the simmering pile of cotton, nylon, and lace.
Margaret and her friends had scrutinised the information about the festival and planned accordingly. They intended to sleep in the marquees provided, but by the time they got to the festival site they were already full. So they paid their £2 entrance fee and bought plastic sheets and Mexican blankets for sleeping in the open air. Margaret used some of the money she had pinched from her father’s wallet.
It was her first experiment with drugs. On the evening of their arrival it rained heavily and they sat huddled together with damp blankets draped over their shoulders. They were scooping out cold baked beans from tins using their index fingers and drinking cans of warm Coca-Cola when their neighbours offered them a joint. Margaret sucked greedily and felt an instant wave of pleasant dizziness.
‘Can we buy some f
or ourselves?’ she asked, looking across to the tiny-framed man with the goatee beard and his pretty, waiflike girlfriend. The couple made up four joints and handed them over.
‘One for each of you, a present.’
‘Do you by any chance have any spare matches?’
The girlfriend laughed. ‘How old are you lot? Never mind – here we go.’ And she threw across a box. ‘See you around.’
Then their two neighbours stood up and walked towards their homemade makeshift tent, strips of canvas held together by thick tape and supported by an inharmonious mix of metal poles and uneven branches. They had a kerosene lamp which they took inside and Margaret was mesmerised as she watched the silhouettes undress then have sex. She had never seen or heard sex before. Her friends didn’t notice. They had moved nearer the stage, straining to see the band and were now jumping up and down in delight listening to Free playing ‘All Right Now’. When the kerosene lamp went out Margaret joined her friends just as The Who hit the first chords of ‘My Generation’ to an almighty roar from the crowd.
The girls saved their joints until the next evening and by the time the Edgar Broughton Band were on stage Margaret’s head was in an absolute daze.
‘Going for a walk. Want to come with?’ she asked. Susan, Carol, and Jackie didn’t respond so she set off alone, pushing her way towards the front of the stage, listening to the pulsating beats, striking chords, and screaming vocals bellowed out by four men whose faces were largely hidden by masses of unruly hair. They looked like the nineteenth-century Russian peasants that she had seen a while back in her history textbook. As she walked on she discovered that if she passed fans smoking and held out her hand there was a strong likelihood that a joint would be passed on to her. If a male did so, she thanked him with a kiss as she handed it back.
‘You’ll love this,’ said a smiling, blond-haired boy who appeared by her side. He didn’t look much older than her.
‘What is it?’
‘Acid. I’m just about to drop, you want to?’
‘Why not.’
‘Let’s get away from the crowd, it might be safer.’
‘What do you mean safer?’
‘You can get pretty freaked out on this stuff.’
‘OK, I’m with you.’
He took hold of her hand. ‘Chris.’
‘Margaret.’
‘I think you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, Margaret.’
She was aware that boys found her attractive, but at school all she got was lewd comments. This was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her.
‘Thank you.’
She had a good trip, she knew that from later on when she could compare it with some of her bad ones. She was engulfed in colour and sound and touch. They held each other tightly and exclaimed with delight as if they were watching a firework display, but the display was in their heads and around them was a dark copse away from the crowds. The music was faint here. Then they were naked and Chris was on top of her and she had sex, which she thought was wonderful. When she woke up her T-shirt was covering her, skirt and knickers by her side. Chris was gone and she never saw him again.
They wouldn’t let her back in school pregnant. Instead she was given an apathetic tutor at home to teach her Science, English, and Mathematics while her belly grew. There were no lessons about how to give birth or how to be better than her own parents. And a beautiful girl was born, who she held tight against her breasts for such a short while before her mother and a woman she had never seen before came in to take the baby away. She knew that was going to happen, her mother had told her often enough.
‘One photo, please. Just one.’
‘It’s hardly a memory you want to keep, Margaret.’
‘Get Dad, please. Get Dad.’
And that was the first photo, 30th May 1970.
She returned to school with little enthusiasm, but a strong rebellious urge and a loathing of her mother.
When it was announced that Hendrix was to top the bill at the Isle of Wight Festival in 1970 she resolved to go. Her friends, who had kept their distance since the announcement of her pregnancy, declined to join her.
With short denim skirt, fitting comfortably for the first time since giving birth, a homemade tie-dyed purple T-shirt, a stripy red, orange, and yellow plastic raincoat, and wacky orange shoes that for some reason Realm of Fashion, the only clothes shop in Shanklin, had decided to stock, she stealthily sneaked out of the house to prevent her mother’s interception.
The festival had moved to East Afton Farm near Freshwater, on the other side of the island, difficult to get to using public transport but easy enough to hitch a lift to. She got one with five Germans travelling in a VW camper van that had been painted with swirling images of sea shells and fish. She declined their invitation to stay with them during the festival.
The campsite was free and she purchased one of the disposable sleeping bags on offer, made of paper and foam rubber. It smelt musty. This time she had brought her own supply of cannabis, papers, tobacco, matches, and two LSD tabs. She arrived mid-afternoon and joined the naked bathers at Compton Beach. There was no fire for the burning of bras but it didn’t matter because she wasn’t wearing one.
The site was packed – half a million, they reckoned. She was happy with her own company and had no ambition to have sex, although she wasn’t opposed to it, just neutral. When it started pouring all she had for protection was the paper and foam sleeping bag which she held over her head. It soon turned to pulp and stank to high heaven. Her neighbours invited her into their tent, which was a proper waterproofed construction. They were a chatty London boy and girl, who questioned how she could live full-time in a place as dull as the Isle of Wight. They got stoned to the haunting flute and guitars of Black Widow and ended up with the three of them doing it together in various combinations. She left them in the morning on good terms. They hadn’t even exchanged names.
She gave birth to another beautiful girl, who was taken away from her soon after a second photo was taken.
It was 22nd May 1971 and Margaret was just sixteen.
She told Thomas all this, though not nearly as graphically as she remembered it, playing down the drugs and implying that the men had taken advantage of her, which had not been the case.
Thomas Briggs
Thomas hadn’t said a word for hours. He’d just sat quietly, listening.
‘Well, that’s my evil past.’ Margaret concluded.
‘Hardly evil. Misguided, unfortunate, I’d say. I was thinking though, have you thought about trying to trace your girls?’
‘Thought it, then quickly decided not to. I keep up with news about parents who try to trace adopted children. Not that long ago the government made it a legal right for parents to have assistance tracing them, though the children can refuse to make contact. Just for a short while I considered investigating, but then dropped the idea. It’s unfair to dive into someone’s life who doesn’t even know you exist. It could wreck their happiness.’
‘Assuming they are happy. You never know, they might welcome your help. It’s not as if you wanted to give them up, you were forced by your mother who was probably under pressure herself. You know what society was like then.’
‘My mother would never discuss it. Dear me, the number of times I asked her what had become of them. I begged her to tell me. “They’re better off without you” was the standard reply. I got sent to a psychiatrist. One mistake like that was appalling, two was idiocy, I was told. Between them they destroyed my independence and my confidence. In fact, my mother very nearly destroyed me completely. Twice I took pills to end my life. God, how I hated her. She made it like prison at home, I couldn’t wear anything other than what she bought me, I wasn’t allowed out alone.’
Margaret paused. Thomas listened to the sleet rapping against the windows, forceful waves of attack followed by near silent lulls.
She had been speaking loudly, with growing anger in her tone. Now she continued
in a calmer and more gentle voice. ‘Mum introduced me to Eric, an old family friend – literally old because I was still a teenager and he was in his early forties. Despite our terrible relationship, I suppose she was thinking about my welfare. She said I was lucky that anyone would have me, but Eric knew the score and was prepared to look after me. Eric proposed just a few weeks after she died and I said yes. He’d never been married and I could understand why. He was kind enough but more dull than you could possibly imagine. He wanted children, but I’d vowed not to have any more and I stuck with that decision.’
‘You would have made a wonderful mother.’
Margaret started to cry again, the quiet sort with tears silently running down her cheeks. She took a handkerchief from her cardigan sleeve. It was the one with an embroidered purple flower in the corner. She dabbed her eyes.
‘Take the photos back up will you, Thomas. I’m exhausted, I’ve talked enough. I’m going to bed.’
Thomas returned the photos to where he’d found them and absent-mindedly began to rebuild parts of his Hornby train track. He’d recently purchased a LMS Royal Scot 6133. The Green Howards, it had been called in its day. He built a siding and a signal that could direct the train into it. He strengthened one of the bridges. He repainted three passengers who looked rather faded. Then he popped downstairs to make a cheese sandwich before returning to race the train round and round. Anything to take his mind off poor Margaret’s story.
It was half past two before he joined her in bed. She was fast asleep, God bless her. He would do whatever possible to cheer her up, to make up for her distressing start in adult life.
Wayne Briggs
A rattling underground train covered in incomprehensible graffiti pulls up outside the grand entrance of the Manor Lodge Hotel, the shattering noise of wheels against gravel driveway causing guests to lean out of the first and second floor windows. From the driver’s compartment out steps Dad, dressed in his navy blue uniform with red piping around the collar and cuffs.